MARMALADE n
by miss selah
Summary: Some things are too sweet to not be bitter [Mohinder x Sylar] [Slash and Crack and Fanstuff for Runzu]


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**MAR:MA(LAID) n**

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Wet water soaks through the already damp cloth and bites the pale skin that hides beneath it.

Sylar who doesn't quite remember who he is, and is even more unaware of how he got here, opens his eyes and almost screams but changes his mind.

Pain is biting, too, probably worse than the cold but not by much, and he tries to grip at the arm where it hurts the worst. He isn't sure if he succeeds or not because he can't feel his hands, can't tell if he is holding on or letting go.

A face in the dark, something familiar that isn't.

"You waited. Good."

The voice is familiar, too, but fuck if he can remember who it belongs to.

"It's a sign that you're not as bad as they all say you are."

He is bad? What has he done? Where is he and how the fuck did he get here, and why the fuck isn't this bastard taking him away?

He doesn't want to cling or simper, he wants to fight and lash out and kill, and he knows that this must be the part of him that the stranger who isn't really said was bad. So the stranger was wrong. Probably wasn't the first time.

He _does _cling, though, and he _does _simper against him, cold and wet, and tries to remember why.

"It's alright, Sylar, they won't harm you as long as you do as I say."

It shouldn't be as appealing and offer as it seems to be. His name isn't Sylar, he doesn't think, but this stranger is so sure that he decides to go along with it for now.

* * *

The flat is sparcely decorated, and what little there is is dingy and faded from the sun.

"Nice place." Sylar tells the dark skinned and darker haired stranger, and he stares at him so oddly he knows that he has said something wrong.

"What?" The stranger asks, looking around the shabby apartment. "You've been here before. . ." Understanding floods the stranger's face, and eyes brighten to a point that it's almost frightening. Almost. "You mean to tell me you don't remember?"

He doesn't say yes. But then again, he doesn't say no either.

"That's wonderful!" The perfect stranger is taking it better than he is, and scoops him up in a big hug. "If I can just convince them that you're a different person, that the fight changed you. . ."

He stops listening here, because his face is so close to his own, and the sense of need that threatens to overpower him is making him a little nauseous. There is a table there. . . the floor. . . a wall. . . and they are all alone and he thinks that they may have done this before because he can picture his face as he plows in to him.

". . . wouldn't you agree?"

Sylar takes a deep breath and nods, not caring what he is agreeing to as long as he stays right here against him.

Obviously agreeing was the wrong thing to do.

The man breaks free and practically dances – he is laughing and joyous and he wants Sylar to do the same, that much is certain.

"What's your name?" Sylar finally asks him as he corners him against a wall, arms like steel caging him between.

"Mohinder." He gulps, and his lips quiver just for a second before a tongue darts out to touch them.

It doesn't sound familiar. But the tiny mewls of appreciation that Mohinder makes as Sylar licks and tastes and teases, oh, those are familiar.

Those are _very _familiar.

* * *

"_They'll believe me when I tell them, they'll believe me when I tell them about you. . ."_

It is practically a mantra, and they are the only pretty words he hears from him. No 'I love you' and no 'forever' words pass his lips; only that when he finally does tell, when he lets the world know that Sylar – whoever Sylar is – is still _alive, _they will believe him. They will believe that Sylar has changed.

He doesn't know if he is Sylar or not, but if Sylar had always thought about taking Mohinder, again and again and again until he was a quivering mass of flesh and blood, then no, he hadn't changed. If Sylar dreamed of being different, of a New York burnt to the ground, then no, he hadn't changed at all.

He was probably just better at hiding it.

Mohinder was probably just better at ignoring the facts.

A million _probably's _add up, and it puts him in this situation – buried to the skin inside of him, moaning and sweating as Mohinder archs like a cat and purrs.

* * *

He tells them.

Not surprisingly, they don't believe him.

* * *

The flat, which was always very sparce before, is emptied of it's belongings as Mohinder makes to leave.

"They can't _make _you." Sylar insists, even as he helps to push the suitcase lid down so that Mohinder can zip it up, and Mohinder laughs a bit frantically and kisses him to hard, and tells him how lucky he is to have been able to so easily forget what had transpired that day at the stairway.

He says the name 'Peter Petrelli' and something in him rears it's ugly head and screams.

And when the doors and windows all open, and something dark and dangerous and _impossible to see _creeps in, Sylar is beginning to remember.

_Flash of blood, a bit of rain. . . you aren't a hero, are you? You're the one who will destroy this city, aren't you!?_

Peter Petrelli would kill him.

Peter Petrelli _will _kill him.

Sylar reacts instantly, calling on powers he hadn't realized he had. Shattered glass from the windows lift, and he recognizes this fight; they have had it before. Only the first time, Mohinder was on the ceiling, pinned like the butterfly that he is.

Mohinder recognizes it too, and his eyes widen in terror and Sylar knows that for the first time since he found him down there in the sewers, Mohinder is beginning to wonder if maybe he was _wrong, _if maybe nothing about him had changed at all. . .

Sylar pins him to the wall to keep him out of harm's way and when the fight is over and Peter Petrelli had fled, he approachs the man who has saved him, the little pinned butterfly, and grins through a grimace. The smile sends Mohinder in to a new bout of struggling, desperate to get free, to save himself where Peter Petrelli has failed.

Sylar will have none of that.

Tightening his hold on him, Mohinder arches and groans in agony. Bones creak, and Sylar loosened the bonds just enough so that he panted, not screamed. "I remember." He whispers ominously as he approaches, stripping himself to the skin before he begins to work on Mohinder. He trails butterfly kisses down to his belly button and Mohinder moans, betraying himself.

"I remember this is your favorite place to be touched."

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_Miss Selah: Well, THAT was sex. No 'y' about it. Hope you liked it, Runzu!_


End file.
